


Wake Up, I Know You Can Hear Me

by galaxse



Series: Never Wanted to Be This Way [1]
Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Confusion, Fix-It of Sorts, Flashbacks, Graphic Description, Literally just Shuichi thinking, M/M, New Dangan Ronpa V3 Spoilers, Out of Character, POV Saihara Shuichi, POV Third Person Limited, Panic, Post-Game(s), Roleswap, Roommates, Shuichi thinks...a lot, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Spoilers for all of the trials, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, talent swap, the archive warning is for the spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28072812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxse/pseuds/galaxse
Summary: Spoilers for all of Danganronpa V3: Killing Harmony.The first tell should have been the unfamiliar alarm blaring throughout the room.The second tell should have been the shuffling of footsteps beside his bed.The third tell should have been the shaking.The fourth tell, the final notice, were the eyes. They were pale green and framed by thick, curling lashes. They were breathtaking but all too familiar. Shuichi knew those eyes. He knew them all too well. But Rantaro was dead? Wasn't he?Shuichi Saihara struggles to cope with waking up in an environment free of the killing game.Everyone's scars have been healed. Everyone with the exception of him, of course.How could he possibly heal in a space where his relationships have been rewritten? How could he move on when everyone he knew changed completely within the blink of an eye? Was that really the end? Was the killing game really just a dream?
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Series: Never Wanted to Be This Way [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2149407
Comments: 22
Kudos: 110





	1. Morning Haze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [staletortillachip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/staletortillachip/gifts).



> The child of my V3 post-game dissatisfaction. This is a self-indulgent mess of a fic and I am not afraid to admit it. Note that Shuichi will be having flashbacks throughout the entirety of the story, so if panic discomforts you, please pass on reading this work.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shuichi wakes up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the product of my post V3 rage. This is completely self-indulgent and I am not afraid to admit that.

The first tell should have been the unfamiliar alarm blaring throughout the room. 

Shuichi always woke up to the Monokuma announcement. The four rings had become a staple in his daily routine. Even for the few times the announcement failed to play, he could still hear it playing in the back of his mind. There was something bittersweet about having the melody caught in his mind. Having an earworm, be it a catchy song or a series of dings, reminded him of when times were normal. It was a reminder that even if everything had turned on its head, some things would never change. However, the sound also haunted him. He wondered if the tune would continue to follow him if he managed to find a way out, like frost clinging to the grass after a chilled night.

In his hazy state of mind, Shuichi didn’t realize that the ringing had shifted. He didn’t notice the alarm was different.

The second tell should have been the shuffling.

Shuichi woke up alone. With one or two exceptions, Shuichi always woke up as the sole occupant of his bed. Not once did he invite someone to a sleepover. Not once was he invited to spend the night with someone either. His mornings were lonely. His nights were worse. No matter how many times he’d train with Kaito and Maki, or pace around Kaede’s lab listening to grainy recordings of classical music, Shuichi was never able to put his mind at ease. With each passing day, his few comforts were diminishing. His coping was becoming more desperate as despair began to curl in his gut like a light fog. The silence of his room should have been ideal for him to curl up and rest, but the spacious room for his thoughts always threw him into a tumultuous sleep.

With his clouded thoughts, Shuichi didn’t realize he wasn’t alone anymore. He didn’t notice the footsteps circling the room.

The third tell should have been the shaking.

Trembling was nothing new for Shuichi. It followed him everywhere. The quaking was most noticeable during class trials. He was never certain it was his nerves or the poorly-maintained elevator, but some part of him was always shaking. Similar to the Monokuma announcement, the rumbling of the elevator’s descent trailed after him. The hum of the gears spinning and the incessant scraping of metal against metal was impossible to ignore. Whenever he tried to organize his thoughts before a trial, he’d always get interrupted by some sort of high-pitched screech. 

Still caught in sleep’s grasp, Shuichi didn’t realize he was being shaken awake. He didn’t notice the warm hands wrapped gently around his shoulders.

Shuichi didn’t wake up until he heard his name. The voice was deep, pronouncing each of the syllables in a way that could only be compared to the feeling of silk. The melodic tone was soothing. It was  _ familiar _ .

His eyes shot open. Something hovered above him, but the bleariness and light obscuring his vision made it impossible to identify anything aside from a green smear. He blinked until the blurs clouding his sight ebbed away. Awaiting him was another pair of eyes. They were a pale green and framed by thick lashes. The color of their irises was only further brought out by streaks of black along the outer corners. Shuichi felt his breath catch in his throat. The eyes were beautiful. Beautiful, but  _ familiar _ . Thin brows knit together as the voice washed over Shuichi again. He couldn’t make out any of the words. The voice was muffled, words coming out garbled like Shuichi had dunked his head underwater. He  _ knew _ those eyes. He  _ knew _ that voice. He  _ knew _ those bangs hanging over his face in uneven, loose curls.  _ But that’s impossible. _

Rantaro Amami had died.

Shuichi’s breathing picked up.

_ Rantaro Amami was dead. _

His breaths began coming in as short gasps.

_ Shuichi had practically watched it happen.  _

His lungs began to burn.

_ He watched as Kaede propped open the vent. _

Nausea began to swirl in the pit of his stomach.

_ He watched as she arranged the books.  _

His thoughts were airy.

_ He watched as she taped down the camera that would lure him over.  _

His body was light.

_ He had seen the body with his own eyes. _

The blur returned to his vision, distorting Rantaro’s gaze until even identifying the green became impossible.

_ He had pressed his fingers to Rantaro’s wrists in hopes of finding a pulse that had long faded.  _

Heat flooded his cheeks, searing his skin with the intensity.

_ He had examined the gaping hole in his head that still pooled blood onto the dusty floor.  _

He wasn’t sure if the garbled howling belonged to him or not, but the sound was drowned out by his own wheezing.

_ He stood, helpless, as Kaede led everyone through the trial.  _

No, he wasn’t hearing breathing anymore. The white noise has transformed. It was closer to the steady chugging of a train as it rolled closer and closer to his stop. 

_ He stood, silent, as Kaede lied to keep him safe, as she lied to protect him.  _

The train was drawing nearer. The sounds were growing louder.

_ He swallowed his anxieties, his hesitance, his self-doubt to show his classmates the “truth.” _

His face was on fire. His body was screaming. He couldn’t breathe.

_ Kaede had died right in front of his eyes.  _

He became vaguely aware of the presence of hands around his neck.

_ Rantaro had died in front of Tsumugi’s eyes.  _

His head was growing foggier, even the images of their bodies growing hazy in his memories.

_ They were both so undeniably dead. How was he seeing him? _

When Shuichi woke again, the room was near silent. There were no alarms or muffled voices. It was just Shuichi and the distant rumbling of what he assumed to be a heater. A pounding had settled in his head, the steady knocking against the inside of his skull distracting him from the room’s soft hum. He lifted a hand to massage his temples. Headaches weren’t an uncommon occurrence, but they often began at the tail end of a trial instead of first thing in the morning. His mouth was unusually dry too. Shuichi swallowed thickly, face scrunching up as his throat prickled.  _ Was he sick? _ He had neglected his usual self-care routine since Kokichi showed him— 

_ Blood. A shade of magenta so unapologetically vibrant that averting his gaze stained his vision green. It was everywhere. The hangar was massive, but the room shrunk in the presence of all of that blood. Shuichi was practically drowning in pink. He could still feel the way his stomach lurched at the sight of it. Days had passed, but the nausea was still fresh. _

Shuichi choked out a final sharp breath before the doorknob began to rattle.  _ The door to his dorm slid to open.  _ He shot upward in his bed, chest still heaving as it struggled to survive the sudden flood of memories. His ribs were tight, constricting his lungs like cling wrap. The rattling ceased only to be replaced by the soft click of a key sliding into a lock.  _ This wasn’t his room. _ As the key continued to wiggle around, he allowed his eyes to scan over his surroundings. Whatever bits of the walls he could make out behind the masses of taped up sketches were painted a dull beige. The faded hue was a sharp contrast from the polished grey he spent each morning staring at.  _ Is this someone else’s room? _ Shuichi turned his head, taking note of a second bed wedged between two identical desks. The furniture placement was odd, but he assumed the cramped arrangement was made to allow extra room for the large hunks of metal stacked in the center of the room. Shuichi could hardly identify any of the scraps from his seat on the bed, but the tarp laid out beneath them hinted that they were bits and pieces of an abandoned project. He had spotted similar heaps cluttering Miu’s lab. 

_ Miu—  _

Shuichi shook his head. He wasn’t prepared for another wave of memories. Another wave of his friends’ horrified faces as he watched them meet their ends. His breathing hadn’t slowed since his eyes snapped open a few minutes prior. If he allowed himself to linger in his thoughts any longer, another fainting spell would be inevitable.  _ Once was enough for one day. _ Rantaro’s face was still hazy in his mind. If he wasn’t tucked in in a bed he didn’t recognize, he would’ve written off the sight as nothing more than a dream. However, holed up in a dormitory clearly meant for two people instead of the solitary arrangement in Monokuma’s game, he couldn’t overlook the possibility that he saw Rantaro, that he heard Rantaro’s voice. Shuichi sucked in a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut as his chest shuddered. Tsumugi  _ had _ said that the world as they knew it was nothing more than fiction. He said it himself.  _ They were just characters in some sick, made-up game. _ However, she never explained what that meant for their real bodies, for the people who had gushed about murder and despair in the Team Danganronpa audition tapes. Looking at the killing game through the lens of it being entirely fictional, he supposed that his friends surviving the gruesome trials was possible. Tsumugi told them that their personalities were her own creation, but she never commented on the state of their bodies, their physical bodies. Surely the public would not endorse a game that resulted in real deaths, right? If his friends survived the killing game, that would certainly explain his past self’s yearning to be a part of the show—to an extent—and the eye contact he made with Rantaro. However, that wouldn’t explain much about where he was.

The room didn’t seem like a medical facility. There was no equipment dangling off of the walls or ceiling, and the beds were devoid of any clipboards or patient i.d.s. No overly advanced electronics were present either. Sure, there were piles of metal and wires scattered throughout the room, but they seemed more like spare parts than anything else. If he hadn’t woken up with flashes of Danganronpa’s killing game fresh in his mind, he would have thought the room was just a dorm room. It was more cluttered than any room he had ever stayed in, but its resemblance to a school dormitory was undeniable. _ Was this where everyone stayed before the killing game? Did they live here before wiping their memories?  _

If the answer to his previous question was yes, then _why was he resting in this room?_ Clearly, Rantaro occupied the opposite bed. His side of the room was cluttered with photos of him and various other green-haired people. Snapshots aside, Rantaro had also shaken him awake. But that raised the question: who was the other occupant of the room? If he had to make a quick guess, he would suggest himself. Rantaro feeling comfortable enough to shake him awake with such little hesitance was an indicator that he had done it before, but that didn’t necessarily mean that they were roommates. They could just be friends for all Shuichi knew. He couldn’t erase the possibility that Rantaro would wake anyone up with physical touch either. Waking up aside, nothing in the room jumped out to Shuichi as belonging to him. There was little telling what he was like pre-game, but the hunks of metal strewn about seemed better befitting of a mechanic than a detective. He knew that he wasn’t an Ultimate before the game, but Tsumugi had admitted to basing the talents off of pre-existing skills and passions. _Did Miu and Rantaro share a room?_ _No._ If Miu was rooming with Rantaro, she would have been the one tucked in bed. 

Shuichi groaned softly as the door swung open. It knocked against one of the walls, the clang reverberating throughout his brain. His headache was growing worse with each passing minute. The pain was most likely stress-related, but he couldn’t brush off the possibility of dehydration being the true cause. His mouth was about as dry as a desert, after all.

Rantaro stumbled into the dorm room, arms stacked with various items that nearly tumbled to the ground as he kicked the door closed behind him. Shuichi could identify a few of the items in his grasp; food containers, water, and a few pill bottles.  _ Pain killers? _ Overall, Rantaro’s haul contained the perfect supplies to aid someone sick. Shuichi’s hand flew up to press against his forehead. The skin was clammy and warm, but the heat wasn’t nearly enough to be feverish. He couldn’t recall Rantaro touching his face at any point, but from an outside perspective, his earlier panic might have made him appear unwell. He  _ was _ unwell. Mentally, at least.

“Rantaro?” Shuichi was barely able to raise his voice above a whisper, hoarse throat burning harshly as he tried to form the words on his tongue.

His roommate—assumed roommate—whipped around at the sound of his name. His eyebrows were pinched in worry, but the expression quickly faded as their eyes met. Rantaro’s gaze was warm. Watching him was like staring into a mug of freshly brewed green tea. 

“Shuichi, you’re awake.” Shuichi felt some of the tension in his shoulders dissipate as Rantaro’s voice washed over him. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” He croaked. 

Rantaro shook his head, tossing a water bottle and the painkillers over to Shuichi. “Right, right. Just take these.”

Shuichi graciously unscrewed the drink’s lid before swallowing two pills in a few large gulps. The cold water quelled the itching in his throat but did little to stop his trembling. If anything, the sudden chill made his shaking worse. Rantaro must have caught onto the quaking, as he tore a blanket from his own bed to drape it over Shuichi’s shoulders. 

“Did you have a nightmare?” 

_ What? _

Shuichi’s confusion must have been visible on his face because when Rantaro spoke again, he lingered on each word. “A nightmare. I tried to wake you up earlier, but you started hyperventilating. 

“Hyperventilating,” Shuichi mumbled the word to himself. It felt right, considering the ache in his lungs. However, there were still a few blank spots in his mind. _The howling._ _Did he imagine it?_ “Did I scream?”

Rantaro nodded slowly. “Kokichi nearly strangled me in the hallway for that.”

_ Kokichi. _

Shuichi blinked until the flashes of pink faded away. “Kokichi?”

“Should I get him? He tried to get in earlier, but I told him to talk to you later.”

_ He tried to get in?  _ Shuichi swallowed. He was never on the best of terms with the liar. Sure, they had a few moments in the killing game where things felt almost friendly between the two of them. The hours passed playing games that never went anywhere would’ve felt normal to the detective if Kokichi’s death threats weren’t looming over his head. He doubted that Kokichi was ever planning on acting upon his words, especially considering his eventual loss, but he could never be certain. _ Kokichi was _ —had passed away before Shuichi was truly able to understand him. He had shut everyone out within the blink of an eye, and Shuichi was too blinded by his own despair to try to get back in. 

He drew in a shuddering breath. “I would like to speak with him.”

_ Was that the right choice? _ If Kokichi was trying to see him earlier, that probably meant that he had something to say.  _ Was he angry about what happened during his trial? Would he even know about that?  _ There was no way to be certain, but Shuichi had to hear him out. He had given up the opportunity before, and he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

“Alright.” Rantaro stood up from the edge of the bed. “Should I ask Iruma to make you breakfast? You slept through it.”

“Iruma?”

“I can make it instead if you want. I’m not nearly as good of a cook, though.”

Shuichi opened his mouth to ask another question but was quickly interrupted by the rumbling of his stomach. His cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Of course, he was hungry. The last time he could recall eating a full meal was the day of the final trial, and there was no telling how long he was asleep for. He shook his head, running a hand through his tousled hair.

“Anyone’s food is fine. Thank you, Rantaro.” His voice still shook as he spoke.

Rantaro flashed him a small smile—Shuichi wasn’t sure if the grin was more pitying or supporting—before slipping out of the cluttered room. He took extra care to lock the door behind him, a motion that made Shuichi’s throat tighten.  _ Shuichi Saihara was no longer a part of the killing game. The game had ended long after Rantaro’s “life.” There was no reason to be nervous. _

Shuichi sucked in another deep breath. The water had soothed his throat and returned some clarity to his thoughts, but his head was still foggy. His surroundings were still unfamiliar, and he was no closer to figuring out what happened than he was when he first woke up. The detective pushed himself out of bed. He wasn’t sure how long Rantaro would be gone, but he couldn’t waste any more time lying around. Something was clearly off, and he had to get to the bottom of it before a new flood of memories knocked him off of his feet.

Dragging his feet as if they were made of lead, Shuichi hobbled over to one of the closets. He was met with a sea of pink upon opening the doors. His stomach clenched painfully as he shoved the brightly colored fabric aside. Judging based on the crimson sweater Rantaro had tied around his waist, Shuichi had opened the correct closet. However, vibrant colors were never a part of his wardrobe. Even his pre-game self lacked a colorful outfit. So,  _ why was everything so loud? _ His thoughts drifted back to the Ultimate Inventor. The clothing hung up in his closet seemed to suit her far better, but they were tailored to fit him.  _ Maybe it was a mistake? _ He dug out a white button-down and a pink pair of slacks. Staring at the rosy hue was nauseating, but he didn’t have any other choice. Similar to the killing game, the closet was filled with identical uniforms. However, instead of striped jackets and matching pants, Shuichi was left with suits that made his stomach turn with a single glance. A few harnesses were hung up beside a rack of periwinkle ties. Shuichi didn’t bother trying to put either accessory on. He instead diverted his focus to the goggles dangling off of one of his bedposts. They were a perfect replica of the ones Miu always kept strapped over her head.  _ Did she leave them here? _

Shuichi shook his head.  _ This was not Miu’s room. _ Although the clothing, metal scraps, and goggles all seemed to point toward her sharing a dorm with Rantaro, she was still nowhere to be found. Additionally, Rantaro only mentioned her once throughout the brief conversation they had, and it had nothing to do with their sleeping arrangement. It wouldn’t hurt to remember Monokuma’s strange, but strict purity rules. If the creator of a killing game didn’t feel comfortable putting two people with contrasting identities together, it was doubtful that whoever arranged the dorm situation would lighten up on that.  _ This had to be Shuichi’s room. _

Shuichi wandered over to one of the desks. Papers coated the wooden surface, each crumpled and covered in sloppy blueprint-like pencil sketches. Little inked notes littered the margins, but the contents consisted of a flurry of terms he’d never seen. The handwriting unmistakably belonged to him, but nothing on the pages made any sense to the detective. He shuffled through a few more stacks of paper. More sketches. More diagrams. More notes he could barely understand. Every once and a while, he would come across small doodles on the corners of the pages. Each one depicted him using the device diagrammed in harsh violet ink. The simplistic nature of the doodles provided a harsh contrast to the meticulously detailed drawings.  _ Did two people make these? _

Shuichi never considered himself much of an artist. He was always more logical than creative. At least, he believed he was. There was always the possibility that his pre-game self harbored talents that weren’t translated into his killing game persona.  _ But wouldn’t that have made him the Ultimate Inventor instead of Miu? _

Shuichi gasped sharply as the pieces fell into place. Miu didn’t live in the room because she wasn’t the Ultimate Inventor.  _ He was. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.


	2. Violet Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shuichi makes a friend?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all so much for reading the first part of this mess. I have never written two chapters so quickly before. I blame one (1) detective twink.

The blueprints previously spread across the desk were now scattered on the floor like freshly fallen snow. Each time Shuichi made it through a stack, another one seemed to be waiting for him. There were easily hundreds of sketches stored within the room. He harbored no doubts that shuffling through each page would take days, if not weeks, for him to complete. Shuichi began to wonder if looking through them at all was really worth it. Even though none of the papers were identical, they were all so  _ empty _ . None of the words made sense to him. None of the little notes crammed into the corners jumped out at him. Everything was so familiar and foreign at the same time and it all felt so  _ pointless _ . That was until the sketches started to become sloppier. Refined blueprints with measurements and magnified doodles of more complex pieces morphed into amorphous scribbles. The notes cluttering the margins were diminishing, only a few words spelled out on each page. The handwriting looked less and less like his own, as well. Eventually, Shuichi reached a blank page. His name was written across the top as if he was starting something, but the remainder of the paper was completely empty. 

Shuichi shuffled through the papers again. They were sorted by date, the more recent—or so he assumed—blueprints placed on the top of the pile.  _ That’s right. _ He still hadn’t figured out what day, month, or year it was. That would probably be important if he was planning on doing any further investigating. Shuichi sighed. The few memories Tsumugi had shoved into his brain told him nothing about the time. Calendars weren’t provided in the school either.  _ Was that intentional? _

He returned his attention to the papers clutched in his hands. Leafing through them again, they appeared to decrease in quality the older they got. That meant Shuichi was either coming out of a creative block at the time of the sloppier drawings, or the dates were backward. Looking at the blueprints together, it wouldn’t be completely out of the realm of possibility for some of them—if not all—to be created in a single sitting. The decline was noticeable. It wasn’t as gradual as it should have been over the course of a few days.  _ But why? _ The sloppier sketches must have been the result of haste or boredom.  _ If they were just doodles, then why were the dates shuffled? _ If Shuichi was considered the Ultimate Inventor wherever he was, then it was likely that someone else would check in on his work. The little splotches of purple ink supported that theory too. It was possible that he was trying to hide his lack of progress from whoever was checking up on him. At the same time, that possibility didn’t feel right. If he was being monitored, then why would he bother pushing out such sloppy blueprints instead of dedicating his time thinking of something new?

Shuichi gently tugged at his bangs. It was at moments like those that he wished he kept his cap with him. He hadn’t worn it in weeks, but the habit of hiding behind its phantom presence had yet to die. 

Something was clearly off about his blueprints, but he didn’t have nearly enough information to figure it out. Everything was just so  _ different _ . The building had changed. His wardrobe had changed. His title had changed. Rantaro had changed.  _ Everything had changed. _ He shuddered, back pressing against the side of his desk. Leaving Tsumugi’s sick game was nothing like what he had expected. Sure, he hadn’t expected much as he wandered into the void, but wherever he had woken up was certainly not it.  _ If Ultimates didn’t exist, then why was his room set up like one? Why was his uniform nearly identical to Miu’s in the killing game? Where exactly was he? _

The doorknob began to rattle again, a harsh reminder to Shuichi that he was not alone. He hastily rearranged the papers into their original order. Cleaning up the mess on the floor would take too much time, but enough time was left for him to hide the messier drawings. If the blueprints were out of order, he doubted that anyone else was supposed to see them. The door swung open right as he began gathering the normal papers. Similar to when Rantaro came in, it loudly slammed against the wall. The pulsing in Shuichi’s head had faded since he downed the painkillers, but the clang brought back a dull prickle against his skull. He repressed a groan at the tapping. The last thing he needed was another distraction from his investigation.

Unfortunately, luck wasn’t on Shuichi’s side that particular afternoon. The door smacked back against his frame as someone else strode into the room. He had yet to look up from the mess on the floor, but it was immediately obvious that Rantaro wasn’t the one who entered. The steps were far too hasty and close together to belong to his roommate. Whoever came in had to be much shorter. Shuichi allowed himself to look up at the new presence.

_ Oh. Oh god. _

Violet. He saw _violet_. _Violet_ eyes peeking out from behind strips of _violet_ hair. He knew he should’ve diverted his attention elsewhere before a conversation began, but he couldn’t look away from the sea of purple. It was so _overwhelming_. It was so _Kokichi._ Shuichi opened his mouth to make a comment, but all that came out was a choked gasp. _Kokichi was standing before him._ _Kokichi was alive._

Watching the steady rise and fall of the liar’s chest shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, considering how he already had several interactions with Rantaro that day. However, seeing him alive and well after such a gruesome death was  _ unreal _ . Shuichi blinked a few times before rubbing his eyes. The flashes of pink were returning, spreading across his field of vision like spilled ink on a page.  _ The killing game was fictional. The murders were fictional. The executions were fictional. Kokichi Ouma was alive. _

He opened his eyes again only to meet Kokichi’s hardened gaze. The Ultimate Supreme Leader— _ no, it was unlikely that was still his talent if Shuichi’s had changed _ —stared at him like a puzzle that arrived with a few extra pieces. He watched him like he could see into Shuichi’s mind like he was able to visualize the panic and confusion flooding his thoughts. His lips spread into a thin line as he moved closer to the ex-detective. Kokichi’s steps were smaller and far slower than they used to be. Shuichi assumed his bafflement was visible on his face since Kokichi approached him in the same way he would for an injured animal.  _ Is that what Shuichi looked like to him? A deer caught in the headlights? _

“Good morning, my beloved,” Kokichi’s voice was curt as each syllable rolled off his tongue, “or should I say good afternoon? You ditched our breakfast date.”

_ Date? _ It was entirely possible that Kokichi was saying that to mess with him. Terms like “beloved” and “favorite” came up often during their discussions in the killing game. He had never looked too deeply into them, brushing off Kokichi’s flirting as nothing more than an attempt to get a reaction out of him. It worked every time, of course, but Shuichi hardly bothered analyzing the comments as he tried to piece together Kokichi’s character. Deciphering little truths woven so intricately into the web of lies took priority over asking about the affectionate names sprinkled into their conversations.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well this morning.” Shuichi internally cringed at how strained he sounded.

Kokichi stared at him, his eyes narrowing. Shuichi recognized that look from Gonta’s trial. It had flashed across the liar’s face momentarily before calling him out for being dishonest in front of the entire class. Blood rushed to his cheeks. Nobody had mentioned the incident after the trial had ended. They were all too caught up in the manipulation Gonta endured than Shuichi’s wavering reliability. He remained embarrassed despite that. Obviously, Kokichi would recognize a lie that involved him, but it led Shuichi to question if he recognized the inconsistencies in past trials.  _ He never got the chance to ask before he lashed out at the liar. He never got the chance to apologize after he—  _

“Shumai, you’re ignoring me,” Kokichi whined, tugging at the strands of hair sticking out from beneath his cap.

“Sorry, about that. What were you saying?”

_ Hold on. His cap? _ Shuichi finally allowed himself to scan over Kokichi’s outfit. It was nothing like the white, straight-jacket type apparel he wore in the killing game. It was  _ Shuichi’s _ outfit. Kokichi left the coat completely open, unbuttoned the top part of the shirt, and wore the cap well above his eyes, but the clothing was undoubtedly Shuichi’s. It had the same boxy shape, dark coloring, and grey pinstripes all over.  _ Does that mean he’s the Ultimate Detective here? _

Kokichi rolled his eyes. “I was saying that you owe me now.” 

“What do I owe you?” Shuichi talked slowly. His eyes were still fixated on the cap containing the  Ultimate Supreme Leader’s —the Ultimate Detective’s unruly hair.

Associating Kokichi with a talent that wasn’t necessarily sinister in nature felt odd. He had played the role of an evil organization leader so well that Shuichi practically fell for the lie that he was the mastermind. Kokichi’s antagonization of himself was so convincing, he could hardly believe it when he stumbled across the clues left behind to  _ help them _ . Kokichi had become so wicked in everyone’s minds that they had completely written off the possibility that he wanted to end the killing game as badly as they did. He just portrayed his desire differently. Either that or he was truly despicable, and Shuichi was looking too deeply into his character. He doubted that.

“A lunch date, of course! Geez, with that big inventor brain of yours, you’d think you’d have developed some critical thinking skills.” Kokichi punctuated his insult with a poke to the forehead. He giggled as Shuichi self-consciously adjusted his bangs. “What the hell are you wearing, anyway? You look so hot, even Kaito’s straight ass would be crushing on you.”

“Excuse me?” The heat had shifted from burning Shuichi’s cheeks to searing his entire face. Even the tips of his ears were bound to be flushed.

An impish grin stretched across Kokichi’s face. “That was a lie. You look terrible.”

_ Kokichi just wants a reaction. Kokichi was always looking for a reaction. He wanted to be entertained. _

“Did you forget how to put on all of that strappy shit?” He continued, “I guess I could help you. For a price of course.”

Shuichi squeezed his papers. “A price?”

“Yup.” Kokichi popped his “p.” “Your uncle.”

He froze.  _ His uncle? _ Team Danganronpa designed him to be close to his uncle. His aunt and uncle were the ones to watch over him while his parents managed their careers overseas. They were the ones to inspire Shuichi’s love for mysteries.  _ Did that backstory still apply? Were his familial relationships outside of the game similar to those within? If so, then how would his perceived inventor Ultimate factor into that past? Was his uncle an inventor instead?  _ Shuichi’s blood ran cold.  _ Was he actually back in the real world? _

Kokichi groaned as he plopped down on the floor across from Shuichi. “You take everything so seriously, Shumai. At this rate, you’re gonna go grey faster than Rantaro.”

He scooped up a pile of blueprints and began flipping through them. His face seemed to shift the longer he stared at the sketches. Shuichi noted that Kokichi was less guarded now that the killing game was over. He still masked certain emotions behind a maniacal grin, but he seemed to let more emotions slip though.  _ Was he even aware that he was doing that? _

“Why are you looking at these again? Last week you said you were taking a break to actually build something.” Kokichi returned the pile to the mess on the floor.

_ Last week? But Shuichi had only left the killing game recently? Was Kokichi exaggerating, or did he not remember?  _ Shuichi filed the bit of information away for later analysis. He  _ really _ needed to start writing things down.

“I was feeling a bit nostalgic this morning,” He fibbed. 

Kokichi shot him a mild glare. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Shuichi. I heard that scream earlier.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” Kokichi flicked the brim of his cap up. “You’ve had that creepy calculating look on your face this whole time. Just then, you were planning on lying again, weren’t you? What the hell’s going on today, Shuichi?”

_That’s right._ _There was nothing Kokichi hated more than liars._ Shuichi would have chuckled at the irony if Kokichi wasn’t staring holes into his head. 

“I had a bad dream, that’s all.”

If Kokichi caught the scrunch in his features as he spoke, he didn’t comment on it.

“What was it about?” Everything about Kokichi had softened: his posture, his tone, his gaze. 

It was honestly quite jarring. In the game, Kokichi was always quick to tease people about their trauma. He’d poke and prod at their despair until someone inevitably snapped at him for being insensitive. Not once had Shuichi seen him vulnerable. Kokichi’s tears before Gonta’s execution was the closest glimpse he had gotten, but it was still doubtful that his reaction was genuine. He had immediately bounced back, after all.

“Oh, you know.” Shuichi paused, raising a hand to tug at his bangs. He couldn’t possibly mention the killing game to Kokichi. If the liar didn’t remember it as he was beginning to suspect, then telling him with so little information about his surroundings would be too risky. Additionally, if he got choked up enough to faint just thinking about it, who knew what effect verbally explaining it would have. 

“It’s just the usual.” Shuichi decided to settle on a vague response. One that wasn’t necessarily a falsehood, but more an omission of information. He was unsure if nightmares were common wherever he was, but Kokichi’s sudden shift in demeanor implied that they might have discussed them before.  _ What exactly was going on between them? _

“Your first invention?” Kokichi leaned forward, his analytical gaze returning.

_ Did something go wrong with his first invention? Did his talent-related insecurities follow him out of the killing game? _ Shuichi could only nod in response. He’d have to look deeper into that later.

Shuichi’s nod was only met with a loud groan. “There you go again. You don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, do you?” 

“Um.” He didn’t want to admit that his memories were all over the place, but working around Kokichi’s observations was challenging. Dealing with the Ultimate Supreme Leader was difficult. Dealing with the Ultimate Supreme Leader turned Ultimate Detective was worse. 

Luckily, he didn’t need to think of a better answer. Rantaro was back, a tray of food balanced carefully atop his outstretched arms. Kokichi sighed while clenching his fists at his sides. He most likely had more questions, but Shuichi doubted he’d probe about such a personal matter in front of an audience. 

“Feeling any better, Shuichi?” Rantaro asked as he passed the tray to his roommate. 

It was covered in a variety of breakfast foods, each decorated with some form of cutesy garnish. Shuichi raised his eyebrows at the display. He didn’t know Rantaro well, but the Ultimate Survivor didn’t exactly strike him as the type to make him sandwiches shaped like little animals.  _ He mentioned Miu’s cooking earlier, right? _ Sure enough, there was a small note attached to the edge of the tray. 

_ “Feel better, dicktwitch.” _ The note didn’t need to be signed for Shuichi to know it was from her. Kokichi was the only other person prone to using such vulgar language, and he had been in the room for nearly the entire time since Rantaro left.

“He’s dying, Taro.” Kokichi sniffled, wiping away large tears that began rolling down his cheeks. “He can barely remember my name. We only have a few days left.”

Rantaro only shook his head as he wandered over to the pair. He was probably used to Kokichi’s antics.  _ Did they talk often? Kokichi used a nickname. _ The use of a nickname didn’t necessarily mean anything, but it was still worth remembering. Rantaro kneeled beside the ex-detective, brushing his bangs back, and pressing the back of his hand against Shuichi’s forehead. He wasn’t feverish. Unwell, yes, but definitely not feverish. 

Rantaro must have come to the same conclusion, as he returned his hand to one of his sweater pockets. His smile remained as warm and comforting as before, but there was dissatisfaction in his eyes. He hadn’t probed Shuichi regarding what freaked him out so terribly earlier, but he was bound to be curious.

“You’re not burning up anymore, so that’s good.” He took a seat beside the two, brushing aside a mess of papers to avoid crumpling them.

“Was I warm before?”

Rantaro nodded. “Yeah, but it was probably just from the nightmare.”

“He had a nightmare?” Kokichi spoke up, watching the Ultimate—watching Rantaro with wide, innocent eyes. 

_ Was Kokichi playing dumb? Didn’t he talk with Rantaro earlier? _

“I mean, it certainly looked like one, but Shuichi was too disoriented to tell me anything.”

Once again, all attention was focused on him. It was easy to tell that both of them were trying to keep their gazes casual and welcoming, but Shuichi could see the tension in their shoulders.  _ They were definitely onto him. _

“I’m not ready to talk about it yet,” He mumbled.

Now  _ that _ wasn’t a lie. Kokichi could call him out on behavioral inconsistencies all he wanted, but there was no way he could claim that was a lie. Even if he hadn’t heard about how he was acting from Rantaro, he was there to witness the way color drained from his features at the sight of Kokichi. Something was definitely wrong, and it was not Kokichi’s place to make the decision to open up for him. The liar sighed, stretching his arms over his head, and flopping back to lie on the cluttered floor. The two had enough vulnerability for one day. 

There was silence between the trio for a few moments. It wasn’t calm just as it wasn’t tense. If anything, Shuichi would describe it as mildly uncomfortable, like the feeling he’d get figuring out that a test was coming before it was properly announced. Kokichi remained on the floor, once again shuffling through Shuichi’s blueprint—the suspicious pile excluded. Every now and then, his face would break out into a dopey grin as his fingers traced over one of the purple doodles.  _ Amusement, definitely. Maybe pride too. _ The more Shuichi thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Kokichi was the one who had scribbled all over his meticulous blueprints. Childish antics were always a favorite of his, and ignoring his strong gravitation toward the color purple would be foolish.

Rantaro, on the other hand, was occupied with flipping through what looked like a textbook. Shuichi had neglected to explore all of the Ultimate labs in-depth during the killing game since he was too occupied dealing with murder investigations and his own feelings. However, none of the labs jumped out to him as the type to contain a  _ math _ textbook. There was always the possibility that Rantaro had taken it from the library, but the choice seemed too unusual, especially since the page he had so carefully bookmarked resembled a homework assignment.  _ Were they in an actual school? Did Shuichi have assignments of his own to catch up on? _

Shuichi sighed, returning his attention to the appetizing spread on the tray. He had already begun eating after their conversation died. Unsurprisingly, everything was delicious. It was clear that Miu had put a lot of effort into her cooking, spicing up even simple dishes with little touches that had him wishing he could grab seconds. He hadn’t talked with Miu much during the killing game. Her vulgar personality and unwanted physical advances were enough to deter the detective—ex-detective from interacting with her more than absolutely necessary. However, she still didn’t seem like the type to create such a delicious and well-crafted breakfast.  _ Did she have Kirumi’s talent? If everyone’s Ultimates were shuffled, then it was entirely possible that she had become the Ultimate Maid. _ Shuichi wasn’t sure if he wanted to confirm that theory. Inventor Miu was already  _ a lot _ . He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle her personality as a maid.

Eventually, Rantaro broke the quiet that had settled between the trio. The textbook was no longer spread across his lap. It was closed and set off to the side. From that angle, Shuichi could clearly see that it was a workbook.

“Why aren’t you wearing your goggles?” Rantaro nodded his head toward the discarded accessory. Shuichi had tossed them onto his bed before deciding to look through the various blueprints cluttering his desk.

_ He didn’t think that far ahead. _ “I didn’t feel like wearing them today.”

That must have been the wrong answer because Kokichi shot back up into a sitting position. The calculating expression from before had returned full-force. Shuichi swallowed. 

“I could barely convince you to take those off to sleep, what the hell do you mean you ‘didn’t feel like wearing them today.’” Shuichi chose to ignore the way Kokichi’s voice dipped to mock him, instead focusing on the new piece of information.

_ Those goggles were always with him. They were such a staple in his wardrobe that neglecting to wear them warranted a reaction. Did they replace his cap? Did he hide behind those instead? _ Subconsciously, Shuichi reached up to readjust his hat. Once again, it wasn’t there. Rantaro must have noticed the motion since he got up to retrieve the goggles. Shuichi turned them over a few times in his hands before slipping them over his head. They felt uncomfortably heavy over his hair, but if they convinced Kokichi and Rantaro that nothing was wrong, he’d tolerate it.  _ He needed as much time as he could get. _

“I had a headache, Kokichi,” He mumbled as he fiddled with the straps. Another small omission of information. He wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t completely right either.

Kokichi’s nose twitched. He probably wanted to refute the claim, but if he caught Rantaro on his way to get the painkillers, he probably had no reason to call Shuichi out about it.  _ Good. _

“And the harnesses?” His violet eyes narrowed dubiously.

Luckily, Rantaro spoke for Shuichi, “They were probably too suffocating. Give the man a break, Kokichi.”

“Absolutely not!” Kokichi scoffed, “He ditched our breakfast date. I have every right to push his buttons.”

_ There it was again. “Our breakfast date.”  _ The first time Shuichi heard it, he brushed it off as another comment intended to rile him up, but the disappointment laced in Kokichi’s pout was beginning to convince him otherwise.  _ Did they actually have plans to spend time together? When would Shuichi have agreed to such a thing?  _ The last time he spoke with Kokichi, it was right before he died. Shuichi groaned, dropping his face into his hands. No matter how hard he tried to repress them, images of Kokichi’s crime scene kept popping up in front of his eyes. The longer he tried to ignore the flashes of the gory scene, the longer the snippets became. Being around Kokichi brought back the contradictory uncomfortable comfort, but it also brought back nausea tying his stomach into knots.  _ He needed to distract himself. Fast. _

Shuichi could vaguely hear Rantaro and Kokichi talking to him as he attempted to steady his breathing. It almost sounded as if they were asking him questions, but their voices were far too muffled in his mind to be certain.  _ God, how was he so weak? He couldn’t stop the memories of the killing game from overwhelming him for more than an hour at a time. How was he supposed to properly investigate whatever situation he was thrown into if he could barely focus long enough to avoid freaking out during a normal conversation? _ Shuichi shuddered. The subtle ache in his lungs was coming back.  _ Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. _ He nearly jumped at the presence of fingers in his hair. He was tempted to pull away from the touch, but something about the way they dragged against his scalp made him hesitate.  _ He was not in the killing game anymore. The killing game had ended. Shuichi Saihara had survived the killing game. He was okay now. He was safe. Right? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming to my TED Talk. I think I've been cloned and replaced.


	3. Truths and Conclusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shuichi reviews the evidence?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly info-dumping (as the majority of my lovely self-indulgent mess is,) but I tried to add some Kokichi/Rantaro bonding to make up for it. Also, the next chapter will be VERY character-heavy.

Wiggly lines spanned across the previously blank paper beneath Shuichi’s hands. He had tugged the sheet free from one of the many notebooks crammed beneath his bed not long after he had come down from his last burst of memories. He had gathered his writing materials intending to jot down everything he had learned so far, but focusing was difficult with Kokichi wrapped so tightly around his leg. The liar had bit back any further questions after he finished playing with Shuichi’s hair. He traded in his probing accusations for silent physical contact. Shuichi was unsure how he felt about Kokichi’s unwavering presence. His face had once again hardened into something unreadable, any lingering emotions hidden behind a devilish grin. The familiarity of the expression was both comforting and unnerving. Shuichi breathed deeply before printing “ _ Truth Bullets _ ” across the top of his paper. He could focus on Kokichi’s sudden attachment once he got some of his observations down on paper. 

_ Bullet one: The rooming situation had changed. _

Shuichi had woken up in a dorm clearly intended for two people. There were two beds, two desks, two closets, two contrasting types of decorations, et cetera. It varied greatly from the spacious, one person per room type situation he was used to.

_ Bullet two: Rantaro Amami lived in the room. _

Rantaro had spent nearly the entire day in the room. With the exception of dipping outside to gather items for Shuichi, he passed most of the time scribbling in workbooks at his desk. Additionally, his belongings were scattered throughout the cluttered dorm. Uniforms matching his own filled a closet, and little pictures of himself and assumed family members were taped up above one of the desks. The way he woke up Shuichi without hesitating was notable too.

_ Bullet three: Shuichi Saihara was the Ultimate Inventor. _

Although he harbored doubts at first, the increasing amount of evidence was difficult to ignore. Large hunks of metal, assorted tools, and detailed blueprints were scattered throughout the room. All of the notes on the blueprints—except for the comments made in purple ink—were in his handwriting as well. His closet was also filled to the brim with masculine versions of Miu’s old uniform.  _ Side note: seeing him without his goggles was highly unusual. _

_ Bullet four: The blueprints organized on his desk were out of order. _

That bullet was based more on an assumption than anything else, but Shuichi felt confident enough to include it. The blueprints were ordered chronologically, the more recent sketches laid across the top. By shuffling through, he was able to discover that the decline in quality was unnatural. If he had been flipping through the pages from oldest to newest, he would have begun with a blank page. The longer he looked at the drawings, the more certain he was that they occurred on the same day. The purple ink comments had cut off completely at some point, even though they spread across every other diagram. It was definitely something to look into the next time he was alone.

_Bullet five:_ _Kokichi Ouma was the Ultimate Detective._

Even if Kokichi wasn’t wearing a uniform identical to Shuichi’s old one, he was acting differently. The conversation between the two of them was brief, but Kokichi hadn’t brought up his organization once. It was notable, considering D.I.C.E. was usually mentioned to reinforce his threats. Also, Kokichi watched him in the same manner that he used to look at him. He stared at him as if he was a handful of puzzle pieces that he was meant to put together. Sure, he still seemed to view him as a source of entertainment, but it was considerably less than before.  _ Side note: Things might have changed as a result of Shuichi’s panicked behavior. _

_ Bullet six: Miu Iruma was the Ultimate Maid. _

Shuichi had yet to see Miu since he woke up, but he was fairly certain in his assumption. The meal she had made for him was done with experience. It was exceptionally delicious and more decorative than most people would aim for when quickly preparing a meal. Rantaro also suggested having her cook before Kirumi, which could mean that Kirumi no longer served everyone.  _ Side note: Rantaro referred to her by her surname “Iruma.” _

_ Bullet seven: They were in an actual school environment. _

Rantaro had several workbooks stacked atop his desk; various subjects scrawled across the spines of each book. He even filled out a worksheet as the three of them sat together on the floor. None of the Ultimates within the class would do schoolwork for fun.

_ Bullet eight: Talents had changed since the killing game. _

Shuichi was the Ultimate Inventor instead of the Ultimate Detective. Kokichi was the Ultimate Detective instead of the Ultimate Supreme Leader. Miu was the Ultimate Maid instead of the Ultimate Inventor. Rantaro used to be the Ultimate Survivor, but it was safe to assume that the title no longer applied.

Shuichi tapped his pen against the paper. All of his certainties were written down, but that still left some of his thoughts unaddressed. Trading his black pen for a less permanent mechanical pencil, he wrote  _ “Theories” _ beneath the last bullet. 

_ Nobody else remembered the killing game. _

Shuichi had yet to mention the sick game to either of the Ultimates present, but he doubted the term “killing game” would garner any reaction. Neither of them seemed to be affected by any of the trauma they had endured under Tsumugi’s watch. Not much was expected from Rantaro, considering how early he was taken out. However, the changes in Kokichi were impossible to overlook. Whether it was genuine or nothing more than a facade, Kokichi played an antagonist. He worked tirelessly to make himself unlikeable in the eyes of his classmates, even prodding at Shuichi until he snapped at him. If Kokichi remembered what transpired before his death, it was unlikely he’d be clinging to Shuichi without demanding an elaborate apology first. It just wasn’t in his nature. Additionally, the mention of Miu didn’t affect him despite her blatant murder attempt. Shuichi was unsure if the other survivors were plagued by flashbacks or not, but it didn't seem like any of the deceased were traumatized.  _ Side note: When Kokichi asked about Shuichi’s nightmare, he didn’t mention the killing game or any of the murders. Shuichi’s first invention was the only suggested cause.  _

_ Kokichi was his boyfriend. _

From Kokichi’s insistence upon seeing him that morning to the way he so casually threaded his fingers through Shuichi’s tangled hair suggested that the relationship between them had shifted from what Shuichi last remembered. Kokichi had always flirted playfully, but the intentions behind his words felt different as they sat on the bedroom floor. He was far too gentle with the ex-detective. Sure, he still called him out for lying and prodded at his dishonesty without a second thought, but he hadn’t teased Shuichi when he displayed vulnerability. He also hadn’t laughed when the other slipped back into a wave of memories. He settled with combing through his hair with consistent, purposeful strokes. Kokichi even made an effort to remain physically connected after Shuichi had moved on. The two had only touched around once during the killing game when Shuichi had to wrap up Kokichi’s bloody finger after a failed attempt at the knife game. It was also noteworthy that the liar kept rambling about some sort of date he had missed out on. The outing could have been intended as a running joke, but Rantaro didn’t bat an eye at the mention of it. Being involved as romantic partners would explain the lowering of Kokichi’s walls too. Things had changed since their conversation ended, but Kokichi had kept his face significantly less guarded. He didn’t appear to lie as much either. 

_ Shuichi woke up in an alternate universe. _

Wherever he was certainly wasn’t the place he was accustomed to. The building had changed, the talents had changed, and the atmosphere shifted as well. Even though his memories remained the same, that didn’t apply to everyone else he had spoken with. Kokichi also mentioned that Shuichi had committed to something the week prior. That shouldn't have been possible, considering how he was still engaged in the killing game at that time. However, he couldn’t brush off the remark entirely. As unrealistic as it sounded, he might have woken up as Shuichi Saihara in a different timeline, a timeline where he was the Ultimate Inventor attending a functioning school with his fellow Ultimates. The logical side of him was desperate to cross off the possibility, but he lacked enough knowledge to do so confidently.

_ Shuichi woke up in the real world. _

Tsumugi provided him with little information about the genuine outside world during the final trial. He only knew that there was a version of him that existed outside the killing game. It was a version that saw little issue with Team Danganronpa’s actions and even looked up to them for it. He could hardly stomach the thought of idolizing something as cruel as murdering friends for entertainment, but he doubted Tsumugi was skilled enough to forge a video of him like that. Although, Tsumugi  _ had _ mentioned that Ultimates did not exist outside the killing game. If Shuichi was the Ultimate Inventor, that meant she was either lying, or he had not yet returned to reality.

_ Shuichi had yet to wake up and was actually caught in an elaborate nightmare. _

He had beaten the killing game. The game was over. However, things were still unusual. Ultimates still followed him, and flashes of trials and bloodshed still haunted him. There wasn’t much evidence to support that he was trapped in a nightmare, but there was nothing to disprove the theory either. It was something to keep in mind as he gathered more evidence and toyed with the logic of his surroundings.

_ Shuichi woke up in another one of team Danganronpa’s simulations. _

The thought made his stomach lurch like he had stopped short while driving a car. Shuichi could hardly stomach the thought of the previous killing game.  _ How could he possibly get through another? _ He must have started trembling again because he could feel Kokichi’s burning gaze on the side of his face.  _ Calm down.  _ Shuichi sucked in a deep breath before starting to write again. The last killing game was littered with little inconsistencies that made for poor entertainment when piled up and pulled into the spotlight. There wasn’t a defined ending, proper cliffhanger, or even build up for another season. The finale was just a blur of Shuichi firing off questions without a moment to process or feel for his losses.  _ Would team Danganronpa really issue a redo? _ He shook his head, crumpling up the sheet of paper. He was free from the killing game. Whether or not he was in a nightmare or the real world, the game was over. _ There would not be another killing game for as long as he lived. _

Shuichi tossed the crushed paper ball atop the stack of blueprints he had been mulling over earlier. They were all going to be heavily scrutinized later, so he hadn’t bothered to put them away. He didn’t exactly know where away was either. The ex-detective returned his attention to the now-detective wrapped around his leg. There had to have been a reason behind the chosen method of contact. Kokichi hadn’t held his hand, sat in his lap, or draped himself over his back. He settled for sitting on the floor in contemplative silence as he stared glaring holes into the side of his—of Shuichi’s head. His lips were still stretched into a menacing grin. It was as disconcerting then as it was the last time Shuichi spared him a glance. Contrasting from the sinister smile, his violet eyes sparkled with innocent expectancy. The look was reminiscent of one a child would give a parent between bites of cake at a birthday party, the pleading look begging to open gifts they knew were stashed beneath the table.  _ Was Kokichi looking for him to initiate a conversation? _

“You mentioned a lunch date?” Shuichi ignored the heat blooming across his cheeks.

“You remembered, Shumai!” Kokichi gasped, releasing his hold on Shuichi’s leg and falling backward as if he had fainted. “And here I thought you were going to leave me all alone and sorrowful in the dining hall.” Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes before rolling down his cheeks in thick droplets. “You’re so cruel, my beloved inventor, making your dearest detective wait so long for a confirmation!” 

Rantaro spoke up from the other side of the room, “Are you sure Shuichi’s in the right condition to be around everyone? I don’t want Momota to overwhelm him.”

_ Momota? Were Kaito and Shuichi still friends? _

“Oh, Kaito Schmaito,” Kokichi rolled his eyes. “I doubt he’ll even notice us over that creepy girlfriend of his.”

“Maki’s going to be there?” Shuichi spoke without thinking.

His question earned a curious stare from Kokichi. “Of course, Maki Roll’s gonna be there. Someone has to babysit that box of rocks.”

“You shouldn’t call him that.” 

“What are you gonna do, Rantaro? Put me in a time-out?” Kokichi sat back up, grabbing onto Shuichi’s leg once again.

Rantaro only chuckled. “No, but I know Gonta’s been looking for an opportunity to meet with Shuichi.”

“Crashing our date? That’s a low blow.”

“Like you’re one to talk. Who can’t reach the popcorn shelf, again? I think I need a reminder.”

The liar sprung to his feet, scrambling over to the other’s desk with the speed of a fly caught in a glass. Rantaro must have been expecting that reaction because he slammed his book shut and twirled his chair to face Kokichi. He was wearing a similar smirk. However, the subtle curve of Rantaro’s lips was more playful than anything. It reminded Shuichi of the fond way family members watched over each other.  _ Was he the Ultimate Child Caretaker? _ Shuichi didn’t have a chance to linger on that train of thought. The two had shifted from standing beside Rantaro’s well-organized desk to rolling around on the floor. A string of surprisingly varied expletives entangled with bubbly laughter as Kokichi attempted to grab the white tie wrapped around Rantaro’s neck. Each grasp resulted in a handful of air, but he didn’t back down. If anything, he began trying even harder.

Eventually, Kokichi’s back hit the floor with a resounding thud. His mouth opened in a silent scream, but his eyes were still wide with childish glee.  _ That’s right. _ Kokichi was not afraid to lose games he was in control of. As long as he could choose the outcome, he was satisfied. Rantaro swiped the cap off of the other’s head. He couldn’t have held the hat for longer than a few seconds before he sent it careening in Shuichi’s direction. The ex-detective snatched it out of the air without a second thought. 

For a moment, everything felt normal again. The fabric was familiar in his hands. While Shuichi hadn’t actually picked up the accessory since Kaede’s passing, the hat’s phantom presence still followed him. He was still haunted by the desire to hide. He dragged his fingers over the stitches mending each piece together. He traced the stripes sewn on to decorate one of the sides. He pressed the pad of his thumb against the star-shaped pin attached beside the brim. Everything was the same. Not a single detail had changed. Shuichi slipped the goggles off of his head, adjusting them to dangle comfortably against his collarbones. He had sworn to himself that he was never going to wear the cap again. Everyone had been so excited the day he showed up without it. However, Shuichi ached for a constant, for something that wouldn’t change no matter how many discoveries he made.  _ It was unlikely that anyone would remember his old habits anyway. _ Shuichi settled the cap over his tousled hair, carefully adjusting the tangled strands until they roughly matched his original style. It was  _ nice _ . 

Shuichi peeked out from under the brim, his eyes flitting over the tangled forms of his classmates. Both of them were blinking up at him with gazes devoid of any emotion. If anything, their eyes were a bit glassy, glazed over as if searching for a memory that didn’t exist.  _ Wait. _ Kokichi elbowed Rantaro in the stomach before Shuichi could ponder the possibility of them remembering his old habit. 

“Watch out, Shumai. At the rate you’re stealing my stuff, I’ll have to arrest you.” Kokichi jumped up from the floor, ignoring Rantaro as he rolled around in pain.

“You won’t.”

“Try me.” Kokichi pushed the brim over Shuichi’s eyes. “I have the entire police force at my beck and call. Hundreds of thousands ready to back me up. Would you really risk that?”

A tingle in his chest, a subtle blooming of warmth.

“I would,” He flicked the brim back up. “because you’re lying.”

Kokichi pulled the cap further up in order to press their foreheads together. “How are you so sure?”

“If you had that many people willing to follow you, wouldn’t a different Ultimate suit you better? Also, you covered my face when you threatened me, so I couldn’t see Rantaro properly. He rolls his eyes when you lie.” Shuichi deduced.

“Wow. Keep that up, and you might just impress me.”

“Might?” Fighting the blush creeping across his cheeks was a challenge. “By the way you’re acting, you already are.”

Kokichi pulled away, the cheeky grin plastered on his face somehow growing wider. “So, my big-brained inventor, are we going to lunch or not?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now.” He scoffed. “Aren’t you hungry? It’s been years, Shumai!”

Shuichi shook his head before standing. He wasn’t terribly hungry after Miu’s generous meal, but missing out on the chance to talk to Maki would be foolish. If anyone else were going to remember the killing game, it would be her. Himiko was also an option, but she was far less blunt than the assassin.  _ Now ex-assassin. _ He stretched his arms over his head until his back cracked with a soft pop. Exhaustion had settled over his body as a soft haze. Only a few hours had passed since he woke up, but the stress of the day was enough to tire him out for the next week. If he were lucky, he’d be awake for long enough to take a few notes that night. 

“You coming?” Kokichi tossed a glance over his shoulder.

Rantaro had gotten up from the floor, but he still held a hand to his stomach.

“Yeah,” He wheezed, “I need a few, though.”

Kokichi only snickered, hooking an arm around Shuichi’s lanky body. The ex-detective was unable to say anything else before he was swept out of the cramped bedroom. Kokichi walked with short, speedy steps. If Shuichi didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought the liar was walking ahead of him on purpose. He was stumbling over his feet as he tried to match the other’s gait. While he was always aware of their height difference, he couldn’t recall actually walking beside him in the killing game. Kokichi was always a few steps ahead of him, both figuratively and literally. Shuichi doubted that would ever change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.   
> Currently debating whether or not I want Keebo to say "That's robophobic!" or "That's homophobic!"


	4. Confusing Catch-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shuichi goes on a date?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kicking off the new year with a lengthy chapter. Thank y'all so much for reading so far and I hope you'll continue to enjoy this fic.

Voices bounced off the painted walls rhythmically, crowding Shuichi in the spacious corner he had claimed for himself. The din of the dining hall shouldn’t have been enough to overwhelm him, but the way everyone’s words melded with the ever-present thundering of his heart was enough to muddle his thoughts with the sudden cacophony. Shuichi sucked in a deep breath, clutching onto the edge of the table until his knuckles tinged white. Everything was  _ loud _ . Even the softer voices were trailed by a buzzing reminiscent of television static. He couldn’t understand any of the words being spewed around him, but identifying the many speakers was easy. His classmates— _ His friends _ had filed into the room not long after Kokichi had dragged him inside. Although left to wait alone far away from the crowd, he was surrounded. Their greetings. Their jokes. Their laughs. Their rebuttals.  _ Them. _ Everything oozed with the normalcy expected upon jolting awake in a high school dormitory. However, the boisterous atmosphere was nauseating to Shuichi. His stomach lurched with each syllable that echoed off of the walls around him. His headache was even drifting back too. Wisps of pain brushed against his temples, ebbing away the moment he’d reach up to soothe the ache. Shuichi cursed under his breath.  _ He needed to talk to Maki _ , but pushing through a dialogue with her wasn’t going to work if the distant presence of Kaede’s voice was enough to make him cry.

Luckily for Shuichi, a distraction had practically fallen into his lap in the form of a tin lunch tray. The meal was undoubtedly provided by the school. While it didn’t look unappetizing by any means, it lacked the attention to detail blanketing Miu’s spread. Shuichi’s eyebrows knit further together with the longer he examined the meal. When Kokichi had asked what he wanted to eat that day, Shuichi had opted for requesting his “usual.” He didn’t have the slightest clue what that meant for him, but such a sugar-heavy lunch didn’t seem to suit his tastes in any universe. 

“Why did you give me your lunch?” His gaze flickered up to meet Kokichi’s. The impish grin had returned, preventing Shuichi from discerning any of the thoughts running through his head. 

“Aw, Shumai, you noticed.” Kokichi placed the other tray on the table, revealing a spread Shuichi almost swore he ate during the killing game. Once again, it wasn’t the least appetizing meal in the world, but the bitter foodstuffs better catered to his bland taste buds. “And here I was hoping I’d be able to get you with hot sauce again.”

_ Hot sauce?  _ He could never imagine the liar ruining his own lunch. He wouldn’t gain nearly enough from that as he would messing with Shuichi’s.  _ Was that a test? _

“Of course, I noticed.” He took note of how Kokichi’s expression didn’t waver. Whatever face he was wearing wasn’t genuine. That was certain. “You’d sooner treat me than grab a coffee for yourself.”

For a moment, Shuichi thought he might have seen Kokichi’s hand twitch where he rested it on the carefully wrapped silverware, but the motion had ended as soon as it began. “Right again, my beloved. Wow, you’re getting so smart nowadays. Keep this up, and I might start thinking  _ you’re _ the Ultimate Detective.”

Shuichi forced out a laugh. It was dry, scratching painfully at his throat from how strained it sounded.  _ Kokichi was onto him. There was no questioning that. _ “You know that’s impossible.”

“Is it? I mean, Rantaro and that bitchlet pretty much share an Ultimate. What’s stopping us from doing the same?”

“Because,” Shuichi angled his head down to look at the mug of coffee now cradled in his hands. With the hat still resting securely on his head, Kokichi wouldn’t be able to catch any cracks in his composure. “I’m just an inventor. I’m only good at making little gadgets and doodling. I’d never be able to solve a murder.” 

Kokichi’s hands balled into fists. Whether that was because he caught Shuichi lying through his teeth, or a result of the sudden self-deprecation was uncertain. “Oh, shut the fuck up, Shumai.”  _ It must have been the former. _ “You  _ know _ you’re better than that. Don’t give me that shit.”  _ Nevermind? _

Shuichi forced his features to rest in a blank gaze. With how masked Kokichi kept himself, he would be in no position to call out the sudden lack of genuine expression. “How are you so certain?”

“Oh, fishing for compliments now, are we?” His nose wrinkled.

“Not in the slightest.” Shuichi took a sip of his drink, allowing the bitter taste to wash over the regrets circling his thoughts like vultures. “I just think I’m losing my touch.”

“Your touch for what?”

Shuichi wasn’t able to provide an answer before his vision was suddenly obscured. A heavy hand had forced the brim over his eyes, clapping against his back a few times once done with the gesture. His throat tightened. Kokichi’s question still hung between them, but Kaito’s arrival was enough to leave it suspended. 

“There’s my sidekick!” Kaito’s thunderous voice boomed over whatever words were dying on the tip of Shuichi’s tongue. “How’ve you been, man? Heard you had a rough morning.”

The screech of chair legs against the tile was followed by a sudden warmth beside Shuichi. He hastily pushed the cap up, desperate to catch a glimpse of his late friend. Sure enough, Kaito had settled himself in a nearby chair. He was lax as ever, arms crossed loosely over his chest while his legs stretched to peek out from the other side of the table. Kaito’s lips were stretched into a wide grin, and for a moment, Shuichi thought he saw blood dribbling down his chin. However, the sight vanished with a few blinks, leaving him with Kaito’s enthusiastic grin. Shuichi felt himself begin to smile. Kaito was so similar to the stars he studied. Looking at him was painful. It wasn’t because he was unsightly by any means, he was just  _ bright _ . He was a force so positive that Shuichi felt utterly captivated, despite his urge to shield his eyes. Kaito was warm. His kindness burned, but Shuichi couldn’t find himself caring. 

“He’d be just splendid if  _ someone _ didn’t interrupt us.” Kokichi positioned his elbows on the table, leaning forward until his chin rested atop his intertwined fingers. His smile had widened, but Shuichi could see the strain in his eyes. 

Kaito only laughed, “Like Saihara would willingly spend time with someone like you.”

_ Saihara? Were they no longer on a first-name basis? _

“Wow, Kaito. You’re really out of the loop, aren’t you?” One of Kokichi’s arms fell to the table as he rested his chin on a closed fist. Something flickered in his eyes. It was akin to a triumphant gleam, but it vanished before Shuichi could truly pinpoint it. 

Momota’s face screwed up in confusion. “The hell are you on about?”

“You should really cut back on your training. I think all that sparring with Maki might have knocked something loose.”

“Don’t call her that.” He spat. “Just answer the question already.”

Kokichi sighed, rolling his eyes. “Shumai can’t get enough time with me, dimwit.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Well, of course.” His eyelashes fluttered innocently as he spoke, “He  _ is _ my beloved partner, after all.”

_ Partner. “Beloved partner.” So, Kokichi was his boyfriend. _

Momota scoffed, “No way, man. Not in a million years. My sidekick’s smarter than that. Right, Saihara?”

Shuichi blinked.  _ What was he supposed to say? _ Momota’s reluctance to believe Kokichi’s claim had caused doubt to pop up in Shuichi’s mind, tapping lightly against the sides of his skull as he struggled to formulate an adequate response. He doubted Kokichi had lied about dating. Out of everything Shuichi had done that morning, calling him by his first name and asking him for a make-up date were the things nobody batted an eye at. Kokichi was notably clingier than he used to be too. With the exception of their lunch together, he was always touching Shuichi in some way. He gravitated to the ex-detective with little hesitation, almost as if he was acting purely on muscle memory. Shuichi bit his lip. It was entirely possible that Kokichi’s odd behavior was nothing more than an ongoing joke, but he couldn’t find himself fully believing that. Dating the liar was a strange concept to him, but in their circumstances, it didn’t feel  _ wrong _ .

Momota must have taken Shuichi’s silence as a confirmation for Kokichi’s claim. The smug grin previously plastered on his lips was melting, his lips curling downward until his jaw dropped completely. His eyebrows had shot up, rising to the point that they were nearly disguised beneath his plum-toned headband. 

“Is this really that surprising to you?”  _ Triumph. It was definitely triumph. _ “Didn’t you ever ask Shumai why he kept missing your little training sessions?”

Momota’s mouth snapped back shut, his gaze hardening. He was luminary alright. His glare was  _ searing _ . The look wasn’t even directed toward Shuichi, but he still found himself breaking out into a nervous sweat. Momota’s wrath wasn’t a new concept, but familiarity did little to soften the experience. 

“Did you even need to ask? Didn’t you ever catch him leaving my room in the morning?” Kokichi purred. 

“Shut up.”

“Why? Are you upset you never saw him knocking on my door? Are you going to throw a fit because you didn’t bother paying enough attention to your dear ‘sidekick’ to know he started dating someone?”

“Shut. Up.”

“Do you have any idea how long we’ve been together, either? Any clue how long I’ve had my—“

“That’s enough, Kokichi.” Shuichi interrupted. His voice was firm, but his hands trembled in his lap. 

The din crowding the dining hall hadn’t ceased, but the conversations were bound to stop if the pair bickered any longer. Shuichi glanced over his shoulder, catching an eyeful of crimson before returning his attention to the table. Momota was shaking too, his shoulders tensed up and quaking as he struggled to keep his arms crossed. Kokichi, on the other hand, appeared unaffected by the whole ordeal. His head remained perched on his hand, drawing more attention to the devilish smirk masking his features. 

Shuichi clasped his hands together in hopes of stopping the trembling. “I’m sorry for not properly telling you, Momota. I was waiting for the right time.”

Kokichi’s nose twitched.  _ He knew. _

Momota shook his head, jaw clenching to prevent him from responding properly. Kokichi made a strangled noise caught between a laugh and a groan. It was clear he wanted to call Shuichi out on his apology, but he seemed to lack the words to do so. Shuichi looked down at his coffee again. The liquid was beginning to grow cold, staining the inside of the mug with dark rings. 

“Is this a date?” Momota eventually choked out. He spoke like the words were filthy, tainting him with each syllable that shot off his tongue. 

“It was before you showed up.” Kokichi snatched the cap from Shuichi’s head before settling it back over his own hair.

“What’s going on?” Maki’s soft voice washed over the group. It was sharp as ever but still tinged with the fondness reserved only for Momota. 

Shuichi’s goggles jingled as he whipped around to face the assassin. He was immediately drawn to her eyes. Her crimson gaze was every bit as calculated as the words she approached the group with. It was overflowing with a piercing loathing tangible enough to make Kokichi’s eyebrows settle into a frown, but restrained enough to keep the liar from lashing out. She wasn’t starting a fight so much as she was showing she had prepared for one. 

“Oh, nothing much.” Kokichi smiled again. “My beloved inventor and I were just waiting for you to pick up your dog. I hate puppy-sitting.” 

Maki chose not to respond to his comment, instead pulling up a chair and a few trays to join the trio. Momota muttered a soft thank you before digging into the new meal. Her only acknowledgment of his gratitude was a subtle tilt of her head. She was clearly too fixated on Kokichi’s beaming grin to focus on the Ultimate—Momota. 

“Not going to deny that he’s your lapdog?” Kokichi grabbed his soda, swirling the purple beverage in the bottle a few times before taking a particularly long sip. “I guess it would be hard to deny that one. You two do play fetch all day after all.”

“Do you want to die?”

Shuichi’s insides tingled, relief bubbling up in his throat so suddenly, he nearly laughed. Momota tossed a questioning glance over his shoulder. Shuichi’s sudden excitement must have been out of character, but he didn’t care. Maki had undoubtedly changed. The sudden shift from a red sailor uniform to a leather jacket and striped leggings was plenty of proof for that claim. However, fragments of her remained. Even if her Ultimate had shifted much in the same manner as Shuichi’s, her habit remained and her loathing followed. If Shuichi remembered correctly, the catchphrase spawned from her past profession.  _ Did that mean she remembered? Was her memory left unaltered? _

“Not particularly. Can I get back to you in a few days?” Kokichi’s words dripped with the sickening sweetness of poisoned honey.

Maki rolled her eyes. “Please don’t.”

“You’re no fun at all, Maki Roll.”

Momota choked on his food, clutching his sandwich with such ferocity, he broke through the foil. “It’s Harukawa to you.” 

“Aw, are you all upset I used your girlfriend’s little nickname?” Kokichi stuck his lower lip out in a quivering pout. “You don’t have to get all pissy on me about it. That’s so possessive.”

“I don’t call your boyfriend by any pet names. Would it kill you to have  _ some _ decency?” Momota snarled. 

“Boyfriend?” Harukawa spoke up, the word settling like tar on her tongue. It was murky and lingered in the air with a palpable bitterness reminiscent of the coffee grounds gathered at the bottom of Shuichi’s mug. It was the unpleasant surprise of discovering something that wasn’t meant to happen, the unfortunate discovery of a fault in a daily staple.

Kokichi’s crocodile tears returned as abruptly as ever. They welled up in his eyes for merely seconds before rolling down his cheeks, and gathering at his chin. For a moment, Shuichi was tempted to wipe them away. His hands twitched with the urge. However, he knew they weren’t real.  _ Just another distraction _ .

“I can’t believe you, Maki.” He blubbered, “My beloved and I have been together for months and neither of you caught on. I thought you might notice since your skull isn’t totally empty, but you’ve disappointed me! How could you?”

_ Months? _

Harukawa and Momota’s heads whipped to face the ex-detective. Their lips were pressed into thin lines, but their eyes were blown wide with curiosity. Their question was silent, but all the more acknowledged by Shuichi. He offered them a curt nod. It was enough to confirm Kokichi’s statement without offering any information that might contradict him. 

“None of you believed me?” Kokichi asked. His eyes had dried, but tears still clung to the ends of his lashes like morning dew.

“None of us?” Shuichi repeated the phrase aloud. It was  _ odd. _ Kokichi had no reason to include him in such a question. “Am I supposed to doubt my own partner?”

The beaming grin was back, shielding his features from any discernible emotion as he slid his chair out from under the table. He swept the tray into his arms before practically leaping out of his chair.  _ He was leaving?  _ Shuichi’s confusion must have been visible on his face because the next thing he knew, there was a hand gently squeezing his shoulder. 

“You’re so smart, Shumai. I almost want to drag you back to my room right now.” Kokichi purred, snickering softly when Momota gagged.  _ Was that an invitation? _ “And while I’d love to spend more time with you, Tweedledum, and Tweedledee, I’ve got crimes to solve. See you!” 

With that remark and a final pointed glance at Shuichi, Kokichi skipped out of the dining hall. The snippy conversation had followed him through the door, but the biting atmosphere remained. The silence hanging over the group nipped at Shuichi like small embers leaping out of a fireplace. It stung a little, but he wasn’t uncomfortable enough to speak up. 

Eventually, Momota broke the quiet with a single question. “Does he make you happy, Saihara?”

Shuichi’s thoughts came to a grinding halt.  _ Did he? _ If the couple was together for several months, then Shuichi was missing far more memories than he originally thought. However, he didn’t necessarily need them to answer Momota’s inquiry. His knowledge of the situation was fuzzy, but his awareness of his standards remained clear. 

“Yes.” 

_ At least, he hoped so.  _ If the two were together for so long, they must have made each other happy. Shuichi knew himself well enough to know he’d be single if the answer was “no”.

The tension clouding the table vanished like Shuichi had popped the gloom with a pin engraved with his response. Harukawa’s posture loosened while the malice faded from her eyes. Indifferent personality or not, dealing with Kokichi could be tiring, and that was visible in her weary gaze.  _ She probably had a long day already. _ Momota, on the other hand, reached up to lightly tousle Shuichi’s hair. It was an affectionate gesture meant to substitute a clap on the back, he assumed.

“Sorry if you thought I was unsupportive, sidekick.” Momota kept his voice low. “As long as you’re happy, I guess that’s what matters.”

Momota punctuated his statement with a lopsided smile, and Shuichi felt his insides violently twist. Momota’s kindness was searing him. The tenderness of his voice, of his actions, was burning the ex-detective from the inside out. The heat flared up until it was inextinguishable, turning Shuichi’s cheeks a bright red as he was forced to bask in the overwhelming thoughtfulness. Momota hardly said anything. However, his ability to push aside his loathing for Kokichi in order to support his friend spoke volumes. Momota was willing to do that because  _ Shuichi lied _ . The heat vanished, a cold sweat appearing in its place. A shiver ran down Shuichi’s spine. He didn’t want to be dishonest. He  _ hated _ having to lie, but  _ what choice did he have? _

The remainder of his lunch proceeded as he was used to, Momota rambling about his latest training story intermingled with brief commentary from Harukawa and Shuichi. It was  _ familiar _ and oh so comforting once the shock of Momota’s declaration began to fade. Things had definitely changed. From what Shuichi could gather, Momota became the Ultimate Aikido Master. His clothing should have been telling enough, a baby blue uniform with the jacket left unbuttoned to reveal a pale green undershirt. The style was noticeably different from what Tenko wore, but the color scheme was a perfect match. They even wore the same purply headband. Shuichi had Harukawa figured out as well. Judging based on her striped jumpsuit, leather coat, and devil-horned beanie, she had to have been the Ultimate Tennis Pro. That would also explain Kokichi’s earlier fetch joke. He was always particular with his insults. 

Eventually, Shuichi’s tray was a cluttered mess of wrappers and used napkins. Leaving the duo was the last thing he wanted to do, but Kokichi’s unspoken invitation lingered in his mind like a stubborn smudge on a pane of glass. It wasn’t like he was gaining much new information either. Any questions he had for Harukawa clogged his throat the moment he remembered Momota’s presence. Although Shuichi was thrilled to see the guy again, he wasn’t making things any easier for the investigation. 

“Harukawa?” He slid his chair back beneath the table before arranging his trash into a more manageable pile. “Would you mind meeting me later? To talk?”

“To talk?”

Shuichi swallowed thickly. If she was wary about such an invitation, he doubted they saw each other without Kaito around. “I’ve been working on a few things lately. For you. For your racket, I mean.”

Harukawa raised an inquisitive eyebrow but didn’t bother pressing Shuichi further. If that was out of pity for his awkward stumbling or an acknowledgment that he didn’t want to share something in front of a group, he wasn’t sure. Whatever the reason, it hardly mattered. She mumbled a quiet “fine” before turning away from the ex-detective entirely. If she had anything left to say to him, she was likely holding it until they were alone. She was blunt, yes. However, that didn’t stop her from recognizing a delicate situation. 

Shuichi smiled gratefully. His lungs stayed tight with anticipation, but some of the tension clutching his shoulders began to fade away. Harukawa agreed to talk. That was one thing he could cross off of the ever-growing list in his head. He still had plenty left to accomplish, but at least his time wasn’t completely wasted. Shuichi shook the remains of his lunch into a trash bin positioned beside the exit.  _ Kokichi invited him over, right? _ He pushed through the heavy doors with a shoulder, too busy digging through his pockets to bother using the handle properly. He had grabbed a small notebook and pencil before leaving his room. While Kokichi was grabbing the food, he was granted enough time to scribble down a few more notes. However, he became overwhelmed by the growing buzz of chatter and footsteps before he could write down everything on his mind. Shuichi flipped the booklet open. It was difficult to read the bullets since his letters were crammed together to make up for the palm-sized page, but he was still able to decipher the small smudge of numbers in the center of the page.  _ His room number. _ He had noticed earlier that the nameplates had vanished. The doors lining the dorm hallway were all blank, the only thing differentiating them from each other being the brass numbers nailed beside the doorways. Kokichi hadn’t told him his room number. There was no need for that in his eyes. However, Shuichi was at a bit of a loss. Kokichi mentioned his room a few times during his conversation with Momota, but nothing he said provided any hints. Shuichi snapped the notebook shut, returning it to his back pocket. He had nearly made it through the lounge connecting the dining hall and dorm rooms. Staring at the page any longer wasn’t going to make the answers magically appear. At least, he thought so.

Shuichi wasn’t sure where his luck fell, but it seemed to favor him as he drew nearer to his own room. He had dragged his feet leaving the lounge, dreading the baseless guess he was going to make. He figured the process was going to be painfully awkward. He expected several instances of coming face-to-face with the wrong people and stumbling through some bullshit explanation as to why he had knocked in the first place. He didn’t expect to find a door already wide open. A door across from his room, no less. Shuichi peeked his head inside. To say his own dorm was a mess became an understatement compared to the clutter before him. There wasn’t a carpet so much as there was a layer of paper. He couldn’t read the contents from where he stood, but they all seemed to be torn fragments of a spiral notebook, each page drowning in blocks of purple text. Mangled sheets aside, there were piles of  _ things _ —Shuichi wasn’t entirely sure what—crammed into the corners of the room. He would have thought the walls were closer together than his room if it weren’t for the beds buried deep into the mess. Kokichi was spread across one of them, limbs spanning across the checkered sheets like a beached starfish. How his roommate allowed the room to reach such a state, Shuichi didn’t know.  _ Who would be willing to live like this? _

“Are you gonna join me or are you just going to stare?” Kokichi’s voice made him jump.

“Sorry.” Shuichi shuffled into the room, carefully closing the door behind him. A small voice in the back of his mind told him to lock it. He had been itchy throughout his trek to the messy dorm, back warm with the tingle of unseen eyes. Shuichi knew nobody was watching. He was completely alone in those hallways, not even a camera keeping him company, but it was still hard to shake the feeling he was being monitored. The door didn’t need to be locked. He locked it anyway.

Kokichi kept his eyes closed, but his lips curled into a catlike smirk. “Geez, Shumai, you’re bolder than I expected. What exactly did you think I was inviting you over to do?”

Heat rushed to Shuichi’s cheeks in a flood so overwhelming, he had to grab onto one of the bedposts to stay on his feet. Kokichi’s eyes were wide open then, staring at him with the same childish glee he regarded Rantaro with that morning. Watching Shuichi sputter out an incoherent explanation must have been sufficient entertainment for the liar. He didn’t bother prodding further once Shuichi decided to stop talking, instead letting out a bubbly laugh and patting the space beside him. His laugh wasn’t his usual grating chuckle. It was lighter and more melodic, breezing over Shuichi with a contagion that made him smile as he dropped onto the mattress.  _ Was that how he sounded without the act? _ Shuichi grasped onto the sheets in an attempt to ground himself while he squirmed into a more comfortable position. Kokichi didn’t bother moving over. If anything, he rolled closer to Shuichi. There was hardly any space between them, but backing up any farther would send them both to the floor.

“You’re pushing me off,” He grumbled.

“Am I?” Kokichi turned his head, violet bangs falling into his eyes. “You’re the one refusing to hold me.” 

Shuichi stiffened, glancing down at the wrinkled sheets between them. There wasn’t much room, only a centimeter or so where he kept his body curved away. Kokichi was his boyfriend.  _ Kokichi was his boyfriend. _ Touching him shouldn’t have been an issue, especially when Kokichi spent most of the day hanging off the ex-detective like a newborn koala. However, Shuichi couldn’t snuff out the blush lighting his cheeks aflame. Holding onto his leg while he worked was one thing. Being so  _ close _ was another. 

Kokichi tucked his hair behind his ear. His face was still molded into a Cheshire grin, but his eyes had hardened into something unreadable. Meeting his gaze was like staring into an oil spill. 

“I won’t bite.” His face hardly moved as he spoke. “Not today, at least.”

_ Is it a mask or a habit? _ Shuichi mumbled a soft apology before allowing himself to close the gap separating their bodies. His arms were reluctant, slowly wrapping around Kokichi’s frail form like he was made of glass. The liar giggled—the same giggle he had grown long accustomed to hearing amidst investigations. The familiarity of the sound was comforting, but something about it felt  _ off _ .  _ What’s new? _ Kokichi curled up against Shuichi’s chest, and for that, he was grateful. Keeping his face guarded was already a struggle. _ He was not a liar.  _ Shuichi cringed.  _ He was not a good liar. _ With Kokichi cradled so carefully in his arms, he had become an open book. 

“Will you bite tomorrow?”

_ A mistake. _

“I didn’t know you were into that, Shuichi.”

Shuichi wondered if Kokichi could hear his heartbeat hasten, if the rapid thundering was audible past his own ears. He inhaled deeply. Distractions. Everything Kokichi did, every lingering touch, every teasing comment was a distraction. Shuichi didn’t know how much time he had before his memories caught up to him, but he couldn’t afford to be wasting any more time falling for—playing into Kokichi’s attempts to fluster him. 

“Kokichi,” He asked, “why did you leave your door open?”

They weren’t in a killing game anymore, but leaving himself vulnerable in a room anyone could walk into seemed out of character. If the door was just unlocked, Shuichi could’ve written it off. However, it was opened wide enough for him to see a majority of the room from down the hall. It seemed purposeful, almost as if Kokichi had predicted Shuichi would get lost.  _ He probably had. _

“Wasn’t thinking about it.” Kokichi hooked a leg over Shuichi’s. “Too busy thinking of my latest evil plan.”

“I didn’t think detectives had evil plans.”

A beat of silence, Kokichi’s body growing eerily still as Shuichi’s comment hung in the air. However, the stillness vanished as quickly as it appeared. Kokichi barked out another laugh, gently squeezing a handful of Shuichi’s shirt.

“Detectives don’t.” He pressed his forehead against the other’s chest. “Boyfriends do, though.”

Shuichi frowned.  _ What? _ What Kokichi said had to be a lie or at least a coverup of sorts. It was entirely possible that he was thinking about their relationship, but his style of plotting was less zoning out and more intricately detailed scripts. He was tempted to press further, but Kokichi spoke again before he had the chance to ask anything.

“You’re planning too, right? I’d hate to be disappointed after what you pulled last month.”

Unsurprisingly, Shuichi was drawing a blank. Kokichi could be talking about anything. Nearly anything. He threaded a hand through the other’s hair, silently hoping the gesture would be enough to buy him some time. If he had done something extravagant the month prior, it was unlikely Kokichi was referencing a birthday. He had known a few people to draw out their birthdays to last a week, but nothing ever spanned past that. Their birthdays weren’t remotely close either. From what Shuichi could recall, they had at least three or four months between them. Actually, if whatever Kokichi was plotting happened two months in a row, he couldn’t have been referencing a holiday. The occurrences were too close together.

“You mean our anniversary, right?” 

The fist clutching Shuichi’s shirt tightened. “Wow, and here I was thinking you forgot.”

“I’d never want to forget something like that.” To Shuichi’s amazement, his voice held steady. He wasn’t lying to Kokichi. If he truly was invested in a relationship, forgetting a milestone  _ would _ be something he wouldn’t want to do. However, he wasn’t reaffirming his supposed partner either. Shuichi was walking a thin line. 

If Kokichi noticed his evasion, be it through his phrasing or slight acceleration of his heart, he didn’t comment on it. “You better not forget. It’d really suck ass to miss out on another one of those bitchlet’s cakes.”

“I can’t disagree with you on that one.” Shuichi forced a soft chuckle.

Kokichi’s laugh intermingled with his own until it drowned out his dry response entirely. “You’re so silly, Shuichi. Of course, you can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming to my TED Talk. Things are going to be picking up soon. Am I excited about that? Well! We'll see. Also, note that the tags have been changed and will continue to do so as I figure out the ending in better detail.


	5. Regretful Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shuichi asks some questions?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and keeping up with this mess. I hope y'all enjoy the latest chapter.

Shuichi couldn’t shake the cold. Kokichi’s arms still ghosted around his torso, but the warmth of his body was long gone. His presence lingered like tendrils of steam over freshly brewed tea. When he focused, Shuichi could feel it, the faint heat pressed against his chest. However, the chill returned the moment his mind wandered. His body was plagued by a subtle frigidness. It wasn’t enough to make his teeth chatter, but his arms were valleys of goosebumps. The temptation to return to Kokichi’s dorm was strong. It was even stronger than his urge to maintain some distance. Kokichi was dangerous. Supposed boyfriend or not, he was too unpredictable to be completely trusted. He couldn’t lie about the warmth of his hands, but he could lie about a lot of things. The worst part was, he could get away with it. Shuichi barely knew him, but his hold made his thoughts muddy. Standing too close burned his thought process to a pile of ashes. It was exhausting and so very frustrating. Shuichi used to be intrigued by his puzzles. They both regarded each other with a dash of curiosity just potent enough to keep them chasing after more. Although, Shuichi’s curiosity was labeled with an expiration date. It would last alongside Kokichi’s willingness to drop hints and not a second more. Ultimate Detective or not, Shuichi had to admit that some cases were out of his hands, and he was starting to believe that Kokichi Ouma was one of them. 

Shuichi sighed, snatching a bottle of water off of his desk. Someone had delivered dinner to his door not long after leaving Kokichi’s room. He didn’t see the person behind the gift, but he couldn’t find himself caring much. His keys had yet to make an appearance, so leaving the room by himself was out of the question. Coming up with one excuse as to why he was locked out was enough for one day. Shuichi didn’t need to lose his keys to come across as a walking red flag.

In all honesty, it probably wouldn’t have mattered much if he needed to ask Kokichi again. The liar was undoubtedly onto him. Shuichi wasn’t sure what type of game he was playing, but it was clear there was some sort of plan falling into place behind those devious eyes of his. His vulnerability was fleeting. Cracks in his carefully crafted mask were repairing faster than Shuichi could acknowledge they were there in the first place. His affectionate gazes were becoming a rarity. Hardly a day had passed but it was enough for Kokichi to rebuild most of the walls razed while Shuichi slept. Thinking about the way Kokichi’s face portrayed so much feeling without displaying anything at all created a dull ache in his temples. The longer they spent together, the more lies Shuichi allowed to build up, the harder it became to pinpoint the truth. He was so distracted by trying to appear natural that he was losing sight of his true goal.  _ Where was he? _ He had all of the time in the world to find someone to cradle him the moment his freedom became a certainty. Just because Kokichi offered some contact did not mean he was worth ignoring the investigation. Shuichi was hugged by a boyfriend he didn’t remember and his thoughts were dominated by an Ultimate he couldn’t forget.

His throat clenched. His mouth was dry. The bottle wasn’t cold by any means, but a shiver still coursed through his body. He was getting distracted so easily. It was _pathetic_. The cap screwed off with little resistance before he lifted the drink to his lips. Shuichi wasn’t aware if he had a time limit. In the killing game, there were usually a few days between each murder. They were a few days of stilted peace, a false calm as everyone stumbled to piece together Tsumugi’s sloppy puzzle. However, wherever he was had yet to establish a pattern. Sure, he had only been awake for less than a day, but nobody seemed on edge. Tension trailed after Kokichi like a flock of ducklings, but that discomfort was nowhere near the anticipation experienced before death. If he was in a killing game, _wouldn’t everyone be more cautious?_ Shuichi tilted the bottle. _Unless it hadn’t started yet._ Dread settled heavily on his shoulders, weighing down his arms until he dropped the drink atop his desk. The water sloshed messily over the bottle’s rim, but Shuichi didn’t bother wiping up the puddle. It was clear. It looked exactly like any other bottle he might’ve stumbled across. Nothing about it was unusual, so _why couldn’t he move?_ _Why was he frozen in place, hands trapped in shaking fists at his sides?_ His eyes flit to the meal laid out somewhat sloppily on the tray. It definitely wasn’t one of Miu’s creations. He had only eaten one of her meals, but it was clear she took great care to keep everything high quality. Even the smaller sides were decorative and precise. Whatever was dropped outside Shuichi’s door seemed as if it was hastily made in the dining hall. His stomach pitched. There was nothing inherently wrong with the meal, but he couldn’t diminish the nausea twisting his insides. _Maybe he could go without dinner that night._

Shuichi’s thought process picked back up the moment Rantaro stepped through the door. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, per se, but a conversation was bound to happen regarding why he didn’t show up at the dining hall. His paranoia could wait. Over-analyzing his choice of drink wasn’t going to do him any good while trying to build onto his growing web of lies. Shuichi tossed Rantaro a small smile, feeling some of the weight tumble off his shoulders once the grin was returned. 

“Hey.” Rantaro dropped into his desk chair, propping both of his arms behind his head to support him as he leaned back.

“Hey,” Shuichi mumbled before turning his attention to the mess on the desk. He hadn’t spilled much, but what gushed out of the bottle was enough to wet the corner of his notebook. He sighed as he patted it dry.

Silence lingered between them like fog the morning after a storm. Shuichi’s mind felt clouded but not to the point he was unable to think. It was more akin to a subtle discomfort that he couldn’t shake. Shuichi knew Rantaro was watching him. The tingle returned to the back of his neck, the same buzz as when he was wandering through the halls. He absentmindedly scooped the tray off of his desk. Disposal was his top priority. 

“Going somewhere?” Rantaro’s voice rumbled across the room.

Shuichi stumbled over the door, hand halting as it grabbed the handle. “Just a walk.”

“With your dinner?” 

He looked back at his roommate. Rantaro’s body lacked the tightness brought by suspicion, but his eyes were narrow with doubt. Shuichi shivered. The questioning stare was nothing like Kokichi’s. There was no playfulness in his curiosity. He approached the conversation with the same restrained frustration as a parent would use around a child suspected of misbehavior. His gaze struck a chord with Shuichi, one that made his thoughts longingly reach for his Uncle. He knew better. He knew that Team Danganronpa had likely fabricated the man in the same manner as the rest of his backstory, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“My order’s messed up.” He rocked back on his heels, tempted to pull his goggles over his eyes. They didn’t have the same effect as his hat did, but they were as close as he was going to get. 

“Do you want me to come with?” 

Shuichi reduced his oncoming cringe to a subtle twitch of his fingers. “No thanks. I’m a bit burnt out.” 

“Too much Kokichi?” Rantaro spoke slowly. If he was implying anything with his question, Shuichi wasn’t sure. 

“Just a long day, that’s all.” He offered his roommate a small smile. The expression was strained, but Rantaro seemed satisfied. He spun his chair back toward the desk, allowing Shuichi to leave without further commentary.

The walk to the lounge was silent. At least, it should’ve been. The air around him seemed to crackle and buzz like static. It was reminiscent of the chatter in the dining hall that afternoon, but something about it felt more mechanical.  _ It’s probably the air conditioning _ . Shuichi swatted at his suspicions like mayflies. He wanted to brush the sensation off, but it clung to him much the same as the tingling feeling did all day. He had to be overreacting.  _ Again _ . He hovered by the lounge trash, sparing a final glance at the meal spread across his tray. Nothing about it looked menacing. Nothing at all.  _ So why did he feel so odd? _ He shook his head. Shuichi knew exactly why. Calling the evidence into question wasn’t going to make it disappear. Blindly believing those around him without a doubt—or belief, in a sense—wasn’t going to lead him to the answers. If anything, it was going to drag him further away, holding him back until he forgot why he asked questions in the first place. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Shuichi flipped the tray over. 

“Shouldn’t you recycle that?”

“Harukawa?” If Shuichi’s voice jumped a few octaves, he chose not to acknowledge it. “What are you doing here?”

She waited until he turned around to respond, “You wanted to talk.” 

His eyes flickered to the many entrances gauging large holes into the walls. Three arches and two doors. Shuichi hadn’t explored all too much yet, but it was easy to assume that the lounge had replaced the grand entryway in the killing game. It was open, and most likely impossible to avoid when traveling. Even though it was late, anyone could walk in on them. No.  _ Especially _ since it was late, anyone could walk in on them.

“Would it be alright if we could talk somewhere else? Maybe somewhere more private?” Shuichi’s voice wavered like the tray clutched in his hands. He sounded like his old self. He sounded exactly as he did beneath that cap. It was pathetic. All of Kaede and Kaito’s work. All of his own work put to waste because he was a little confused. 

“No.” Her jaw tightened. “You can show me everything right here, can’t you?”

Shuichi drummed his fingers against the underside of the tray. “I don’t really have anything to show you.”

“Not even a sketch? Then, why am I here?”

“I have a few questions?” His voice softened, meek tone nearly blending into the buzz of the  assumed  air conditioning. 

Harukawa narrowed her eyes. “Questions.”

“I just wanted to know how you were feeling?” Harukawa’s gaze burned, searing him like a spotlight. “About the whole, um, conversation yesterday? You know? Just getting your thoughts, maybe?’

Shuichi mentally cursed himself for not preparing any questions in advance. He had a vague idea of the direction he wanted to lead her, but wandering was pointless without a proper map to guide them. Harukawa’s patience was thin. She wasn’t the type to engage in stalling banter like Kokichi. If he didn’t get to the point soon, she’d most likely leave. It wasn’t like she was thrilled to be alone with him in the first place.

“I really don’t care about Ouma.” She grabbed onto one of her ponytails, aimlessly weaving it into a loose braid. “You know that already, don’t you?” 

“Not necessarily. I had my assumptions, but it never hurts to check, right?”

“Away from Kaito?”

Shuichi squeezed the tray. “I wasn’t sure if there was anything you wouldn’t say in front of him.”

“You make it sound like I want to kill him.”

“Don’t you?” He regretted the question before he even finished asking it.  _ That was a mistake. That was a mistake. That was a mistake.  _

Harukawa’s reaction was immediate, nose scrunching up while her lips pulled into a disgusted grimace. “Who exactly do you think I am, Saihara?”

“That came out wrong!” I swear—” 

“How else could it have come out? Is that why you’ve been avoiding training? Do you think I’m going to hurt you?”

“Not at all, Maki—”

“Harukawa.”

“Harukawa, I meant Harukawa. I am so sorry.” 

“Sorry for what?” She tugged on her hair, fingers beginning to catch in the tangled strands. “Sorry for my name or sorry for being honest?”

“I wasn’t being honest!” The trash can wobbled as Shuichi backed into it.

“Then what were you doing? You didn’t want to talk about your invention, did you?”

He glanced down at the tray, but all he could see was his own warped gaze. “How much of this conversation are you sharing with Momota?”

“Why does that matter?” 

Shuichi sucked in a deep breath. He had already dug himself into a deep enough hole, what harm could come from digging a little deeper? “Have you ever felt like you were being watched?” He whispered.

“Excuse me?”

His eyes flickered back up to meet hers, but the contact wasn’t held for long.  _ He just couldn’t do it. _ “I won’t repeat myself. I don’t think I  _ can _ repeat myself.”

Harukawa dropped her ponytail, her voice barely audible above their breathing. “Ouma?”

“No, no.” He paused. “I don’t think so? I wouldn’t know. I don’t know, Harukawa.” 

Hands wrapped around Shuichi’s shoulders, hesitant but firm. “If Ouma is—”

“Kokichi hasn’t done anything.” Although true, his words shook, “Nothing is happening. Everything’s fine, I promise.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I know.”

Red. Bright red. Her eyes were garnets. Red, and sharp. They were cutting through him, scraping his palms on the jagged edges. Her stare was beautiful, but it hurt. He was burning up. Even the fleeting glances were enough to send blood rushing to stain his skin. Her gaze was painful. Her silence was worse. 

The tray remained clutched in Shuichi’s hands, but the sensation of the cool metal against his fingertips was fading. He hated the shaking. He hated his flush. He hated his fear. Nothing was happening. Nothing had happened. He was drenched in paranoia, worries building and building beneath his skin until he was forced to expel them through small quakes and forming tears. Humiliation weighed down on his shoulders as heavily as Harukawa’s stare. His knees nearly buckled under the pressure. Nothing was happening to him. Absolutely nothing had happened to him, but it was suddenly clear to him that nothing needed to happen. Tsumugi was haunting him. The despair he worked so hard to combat, the despair he sacrificed countless friends for, the despair that drove her to create a killing game in the first place was corrupting him. The hopeless taint was beginning to wash over him, muddling his thoughts until he was caught in a cycle of doubting his surroundings, of doubting himself. Tsumugi was  _ ruining _ him. 

For a moment, it was almost like he saw her again. Her body was poised against one of the arches, arms crossed over her chest while her features curled into a wicked grin. _No, that’s not right._ She was moving. Tsumugi was moving. She was approaching them. _She was approaching them._ _She was there._

Shuichi wasn’t sure when his knees hit the floor. He wasn’t sure when the tray clattered to the ground beside him. He wasn’t sure when Harukawa started talking again, or when Tsumugi’s voice became another noise in the fray. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t  _ breathe _ . 

_ He was going to pass out. _

Shuichi tried to suck in a deep breath, but choked before most of the air could reach his lungs. His throat burned as he coughed. 

He was on fire, but he was freezing all the same. 

Shuichi breathed again.

And again.

And again. 

He was breathing. 

His thunderous heartbeat nearly deafened him, but he was breathing steadily enough to see again. His hands were pressed against the floor. There were tiles beneath his palms. The tiles were off-white and pristine, save for the few scuff marks streaking across the squares. They were cool to the touch. They were smooth. Shuichi gently flexed his fingers, listening to them softly crack as they curled back into loose fists. His hands were bare. There were no gloves or sleeves obscuring them. It was just skin. It was just his skin. He lifted his gaze, allowing his eyes to scan over the nearby pair of black shoes. They looked new. They were shiny and stiff like fresh leather. He couldn’t smell any leather, though. No. The only scents drifting off of his surroundings were sickly citrusy. It reminded him of the cheap cleaning supplies that contained a little too much alcohol to be covered subtly. It reminded him of home, of the supplies he’d buy because they were cheap, and the first ones he’d find on the shelves. He breathed deeply, holding the air in until his trembling ceased to a mere quivering in his shoulders. Shuichi was still a mess. He still shook where he knelt. However, he was breathing. And he was seeing. And he was feeling.

Eventually, the sounds filtered back too. There was the buzzing, he thought. It might have been his breathing or even the fans from the nearby restrooms, but he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. What did matter were the voices. They were overlapping, words melting together in a cacophony of hushed noises. The voices were quiet. They were gentle. They were saying something. He breathed deeply, shakily. They were saying his name.  _ They were saying his name. _

“Saihara?” Harukawa’s voice washed over him. It still held the same edge as always, but something in her tone had softened. She regarded him with distance. She was close enough to display polite concern, but her worries didn’t seem to extend past that.

“I’m okay,” He rasped.

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t a truth. Shuichi didn’t know. He wasn’t going to know. Not for some time, at least. He needed to get away. He  _ needed  _ to get away.

Harukawa’s next sentence was lost to the commotion as Shuichi pushed himself up. He had been standing moments before, but he was then a fawn on fresh legs. His first few steps wobbled, nearly sending him back to the floor with the way his shoulders pitched forward. Hands reached out to catch him. They grabbed his shoulders in the same manner as before, but something felt different. They were more talon-like, digging into his arms with sharpened nails. Shuichi’s eyes wandered up to identify the owner. He immediately regretted it. Tsumugi stared back at him, blue eyes wide behind her lenses. His mouth opened, but instead of a gasp came a strangled yelp. Her face contorted into a different expression, eyes lighting up with joy while her lips curled back into that hideous grin. _No, that’s wrong._ She watched him with concern. She knit her brows together as her lips jutted out in a subtle pout. _She was worried?_ _No way._ Shuichi tore himself away from her clutches, clumsily stumbling backward. _There’s absolutely no way._

Shuichi’s ears were filled with blistering winds.  _ Unreliable _ . His senses were unreliable. Harukawa’s mouth was moving, but none of her words could be heard over the white noise. He blinked furiously.  _ He wasn’t crying, was he?  _ His cheeks burned. His eyes stung. His throat ached. His vision was beginning to blur. However, if he focused, he could see past the vignette. 

_ Saihara _ , she seemed to say. Her sentence continued, lips moving too quickly for him to decipher. Eventually, she grit her teeth. If she was frustrated with him, he couldn’t blame her. Shuichi opened his mouth again, words tumbling out of him like rolling dice.  _ Bathroom.  _ At least, something like that. The statement came out messily, words slurring together in an order just shy of being unintelligible. 

_ He needed to get away.  _ Shuichi continued to stumble backward until his shoulders knocked into a wall. His hand shot down to feel the surface. It wasn’t rigid with paint or uneven like brick. It was smooth metal,  _ a door _ . His fingers were quick to locate the handle. When he pulled, it turned with little resistance. The door caved in behind him, nearly tugging him off his feet. However, he managed to stabilize himself enough to cast a final glance at Harukawa. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. Tsumugi had slung her arm over the ex-assassin’s shoulder, turning her away from the door as her mouth contorted with words he couldn’t understand.

Shuichi fell through the doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming to my TED talk. Chapter six hit me like a bus and I've only got the notes for it finished.


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